


Funny Bone

by soncnica



Series: kosti!verse [12]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abused Jensen, Abusive Parents, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Crying, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Older Jared, POV Jared, POV Jensen, Panic Attacks, Psychologist Jared, Questional Psychological Tactics, Younger Jensen, not really a summer camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: Jared hasn't been the psychologist at Camp Gamble long. He always wanted to work with kids - troubled kids - but now it looks like he might be in over his head. Jensen is 16, Jared is 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION.
> 
> PLEASE READ: After a comment I received on a story in this verse, I remembered that I forgot to put an EXTRA WARNING on this verse, so here it is: I, and everyone in the story, are very much aware that what needs to be done in cases like these is call the proper authorities and report the parents. But that being said, as you may have noticed I'm writing this from Jared's and Jensen's POV and no one else's in the story. And as you also may have noticed I'm writing this at snail pace, as in, I'm writing without any time skips or anything like that. So ... you see where I'm going with this!? I can't say what someone else in the story is doing or what will happen next from someone else's perspective. I think everyone reading this will just have to trust me. Thank you! And please if you aren't okay with any of this, please stop reading as I don't want to hurt anyone. That is not the intent of this story. Thank you!

                                                                           

Anxiety is pooling deep in his belly again, he can feel it putting pressure on his guts; it's squeezing his tissue and bones into a pulp of bloody flesh.

His lower back feels like someone has kicked him raw and it's so, so hard to breathe. It's making him nauseous; the food he ate for dinner rolling around his stomach and trying to punch its way out. He curls up like a baby and squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe the darkness will bring him some relief. Maybe he'll fall asleep before his guts will explode. He doesn't want to puke, he doesn't want to feel sick, he doesn't want to feel anything. He wants to feel nothing.

Oh god. He's gonna puke dinner all over the place, all over himself, all over the room, if he won't calm down. He just needs to calm the hell down.

Breathe.

He can't calm down. He doesn't know how to do it ... he's not in his own bed, strange as it sounds because his bed is never really safe, but it's still familiar and it smells of familiar things, but here, he's lost. He's a stranger in a strange land and he has no focus point that could allow him to breathe. In his room at least he has a window with a huge oak tree right in front of it, keeping his room hidden from any nosy eyes that would want to sneak a peek (but really, it's a way for his parents to hide their sins from everyone) into his room. But here he's got nothing. Just beds and three guys he still knows nothing about, and he doesn't want to know anything about, because they're never gonna become his friends and he doesn't want to become their friend and he doesn't want anything. He doesn't want anyone to be near him.

It itches ... this sudden, overwhelming need to get away from everyone, from human presence, from human touch, from people in general. It itches down to his core. People bring pain. It's what he learned way, way back when he'd still been a child that knew nothing more than pain and blood and sometimes his brother telling him that he's _sorry, so sorry._

He doesn't need anyone to be fucking sorry. Sorry won't help him. Sorry can suck it and die. Sorry won't give him a normal, safe life. Sorry won't give him a life where he would be a normal kid, maybe play soccer and have tons of friends. Sorry won't give him a life where people wouldn't point at him and call him a retard, when his parents would pump him full of pills and his dad belt his back to the flesh. Sorry won't make his back look smooth as it should, won't make his bones look like they've never been broken, won't make his wrists look like they've never been cut. Sorry … sorry is a word that died a long time ago.

He scratches his left arm ... he wants to draw blood.

-:-

Jared knows. That fucking asshole knows. The guy ain't stupid, even if he sometimes looks like he is, but under all that are wisdom and knowledge and maybe experience. He knows that the guy knows.

Fuck.

He really, really doesn't want Jared to know all that. Know how he feels and what he thinks. Damnit, fucking bastard and his fucking probing eyes and fucking stupid smart brain. Jared's better than most shrinks he's been around, Jared's smarter than them, he's more cunning, and he's seen.

He has seen. Jared's seen his scars and believed him that his parents did them. Not like all the other shrinks and doctors, who told him that he's imagining things, that his parents could never hurt him, could never be abusive and that he should stop spreading lies and wash his mouth with soap and _take these pills, they will calm you down_. So he stopped trying to tell them what monsters his parents are at the age of ten.

But Jared. The fucking asshole just snuck up on him and broke him and saw the scars inside and outside of him and fuck him! Just fuck him for shattering him in a million pieces.

Jared has seen and he can't make the guy unsee. But … Jared believed him. The guy believed him that his parents did all that to him, he believed him. He didn't mock him, or told him to shut up, that his parents would never ever hurt him, their child, their flesh and blood. The guy believed him.

Of course he believed him. Because the guy has never met his parents. Never been sweet talked by them, never been in the presence of their angelic eyes and honey sweet voice and _aww shucks, our sweet baby is a wonderful kid, isn't he?_

Jared has never been fooled by his parents.

But once he'll meet them … that belief will go down the drain faster than water.

It's not fair. It's not fair.

But then again, nothing is fair in life.

-:-

His breath hitches. And he's just so goddamn tired or crying. And of feeling like this. Like crap and like he's gonna dissolve into a pool of tears, but he just can't help it. He can't help feeling like this. And it's all the shrink's fault. The guy forced him to talk, and he was all care 'n' share and making him feel like he's safe and that things might one day be okay and all that seriously must've broken something in him. A wall. A dam. Something broke inside of him, something that all this time, all these years prevented him to feel like this; like crying, like talking, like maybe having something other than what he has now.

The shrink made him feel ... made him realize that there are people out there who do care. Who do want to help. Who are nice and whose words stick and don't sting.

He squeezes the thin sheet into a tight fist.

He wants all of this to stop, please make it stop.

He whines somewhere deep in his throat and turns to his left side, curls tighter into himself and closes his eyes.

Fucking Jared. Fuck his goddamn words and his goddamn niceness and calmness and just ... fuck him.

He knows sleep won't find him for a very long time, and the anxiety in his stomach is getting stronger and stronger, tightening his guts. The nausea is getting stronger too and he burps and swallows down acid that came up with the air. He doesn't want to puke.

Maybe he should just take the pills his doctor prescribed him. Maybe he should take the whole bottle and maybe he should take every pill ever prescribed to him and fall asleep.

And sleep.

But ... no. No! Fuck no! They will not win. They won't, he won't let them win. The doctors and the shrinks and the neighbors and his teachers, all with that look in their eyes; that look of pity and hate and like he's some kinda abomination that needs to be subdued by pills and words and looks. And his parents, the crazy bastards no one sees.

No one sees them for who they are, no one knows what they do and ... he can't breathe. He's choking on acid that's coming up his throat, he's choking on air that suddenly left the room and ...

... he screams silently into his pillow, bites down on the fabric and lets it soak up his spit and tears.

He barely stops himself from choking himself with the fluffy thing.

He will not let them win.

The fuckers can choke on all the pills they ever prescribed to him. They can choke on them and die, because he doesn't need them. He doesn't need anyone. He's not lonely, even if he is alone, but being alone doesn't bring pain and dirty looks. It doesn't bring his father's belt or a closet to be locked in. There's nothing, if he's alone and that's what he needs. Nothing. He needs nothing and not this fear, this terror that is consuming him like poison inside of him.

No one knows how it is to lay in bed at night, one ear always on the bedroom door, brain always on overload, always thinking when the next round of pain will come. No one knows how it is to sleep in snatches of time, minutes and seconds, never hours, because the fear of his parents coming to his room is so, so huge, it doesn't allow him to really sleep.

No one knows how it is to live in fear and pain and blood and sleepless nights and days walking on eggshells, fearing one wrong move, one little wrong action would get him locked in a closet for days with no food or water. Sometimes a fist comes to his ribs even if he did nothing wrong and those … those hurt the most. Break the most.

He takes a deep breath and wipes away a stray tear. Crying is for losers and he's no loser. He might be broken, but he ain't no loser. And he sure as hell doesn't need anyone.

Gary and Marcus can have each other for all he cares. He doesn't need anyone. He doesn't need friends. Friends are for people who aren't strong enough to live life alone. Company is for people who suck at life.

And Jared can go fuck himself, because he doesn't need him either. He doesn't need help, other people need help. People around him need help.

He is okay.

He is fine.

He is good.

He doesn't need friends, because all they do is betray you in the end. Hurt you by leaving. And he sure as hell doesn't need his fucking, fucked in the head family, because they are psycho maniacs, broken in the head fucks that he hates!

He hates them all!

And he doesn't need this camp, with these stupid asshole kids always looking at him crookedly, like he's a broken toy pretending to be whole. But they know, don't they? Because they are broken toys too ... pretending they're whole too. And broken toys sniff each other out, like a dog sniffs a bone, because they know they need help getting fixed.

He ... he needs someone to fix him, if he wants to be ... normal. If he wants to get his mangled arms and legs attached back to his body, if he wants to have all his strings back where they belong, if he wants to look like a toy freshly out of the factory.

Because his family has broken him. Because life has broken him.  
  
But Jared believes him. He believes him.

He doesn't know when he fell asleep, but when he opens his eyes its sunny outside but the realization that he _needs_ someone still hurts like getting hit on his funny bone.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

He loves coming here. By the lake. Just sit on the pebbly shore and watch the dark water glow in the moonlight. The stillness of the water stills his thoughts, makes him process what he heard through the day, makes him set up a plan for the next day, makes him ... breathe.

He knows he should be in bed, asleep because it's around one in the morning and he has to get up early, but this ... this is his time. Time to breathe in and breathe out, to relax and hear nothing but some boats rubbing sides by the pier and some frogs that haven't yet found sleep.

He needs this. Every damn night, he needs this. To stop, to relax, to close his eyes and breathe in the smell of pine and spruce trees and hear the sounds of the water.

This is his time and even if he's tired down to his bones, he really can't fall asleep if he doesn't have this first.

Sometimes he sits here for hours after the camp goes quiet and asleep; there are nights when he only needs a few minutes, but he always _needs_ this.

The soft, warm breeze, the sounds of animals that only come out at night, the sounds of the water. It's what keeps him going, what makes him still see the beauty in the world. Night has magic, his mom used to say. She said to use it, to allow the night to calm him down, make him see light in the darkness, because the world's dark even in the brightest of sunshine and he should see light all the time, or he is going to wither and die.

He grabs a fistful of little pebbles mixed with some long pine needles and throws it all in the water. It makes a splash and the ripples spread throughout the surface, shiny little waves in the silver moonlight.

He leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky; millions and millions of flickering stars and a plane with a red pulsing light. That is the sky tonight and it's beautiful. He closes his eyes and pushes his feet deeper under the water that is spilling to the shore.

It's cool, the water, not cold, but nicely cool chasing away the day's lingering heat.

He groans quietly, because it feels so good to relax like this. To make every bad thing float away from him and into the water, to still his thoughts, to make himself think of nothing else but how the night can be so bright.

He feels sleepy, so sleepy but he shakes himself awake. He can't sleep here. He searches for his socks and pulls them on over his wet feet. He groans when he stands up and stretches up to the sky; his muscles feel sore, but his heart and head are lighter, brighter and purer than they've been when he got here. He finds his shoes and turns toward camp. It's all dark there. All cabins are lights out and sleeping. He starts walking back to his own cabin, even though he would much rather stay here, enjoy the calm water and the silent night, but he can't. He mustn't. No one should ever find out about this, because he doesn't want company here. He doesn't want Mike or Gen or anyone else asking him if he's alright, if everything's okay, if he wants some company. He doesn't want that, because this is his time. It's his time to regroup. To get back the strength the kids all but leech away from him during the day. But ... there's nothing else he would rather be doing than what he is doing.

These kids ... they are precious, misunderstood, fighting with teeth and nails, disregarding normal, like it is disregarding them, and ... he knows he can help. Has helped. Will help.

But he needs this time for himself.

He understands the kids in that regard. When they sometimes all but yell at him to back off and leave them the fuck alone. He understands the need to just be left alone sometimes. But there are times when he can't do that. When his instinct screams at him to not do that, even if he gets kicked or hit or spat on or cussed at. He trusts his instincts, he has to or the kids will eat him alive and then some. They'll abuse him and the trust he puts in them and that'll not end well.

He recharges his instincts on nights like these too. They must never become damaged, cracked. He needs time away from everyone and everything to make sure he will function like the grown up, somewhat capable psychologist that he is.

-:-

The path to his own little cabin is so familiar to him; he doesn't need a flashlight to light his way. He knows every root that could make him stumble and fall; he knows where to go left and where to go right. He's been a counselor at this camp for a lot of years, knows it inside and out, knows all its hidden places and all its traps. There's nothing that could shock him, because year after year nothing changes, everything stays the same. The cabins, the equipment, even the staff. Well, Mike and Gen certainly never will change, because they bought the camp two years ago, it's theirs, so ... and they asked him to stay, begged him, Gen even cried a little, but he can't. He needs to move on, help more kids, search for opportunities to be better, to do better, to help kids who are never gonna come to this camp.

It had been a tough decision to make, one he spent almost a year chewing on, but he knows it's the right one. He already has a job waiting for him in the city when the summer ends, and it's an amazing job.

He stops on the path and leans on a spruce tree. He'll miss this. Will miss this little haven that he shares with his friends, miss spending summers here, weeks of adventures, hiking, swimming, lessons in so many awesome things and watching happiness in the kids eyes when they hit a target with their handmade bows or catch a fish for the first time. He'll miss their carefree laughter when they do something awesome and aren't being judged for doing something a bit more badly. He'll even miss their cries and screams and demands to be taken back home.

He will miss this place. Maybe ... maybe one day ... when the city life will become too dark, he'll come back. Maybe. But he won't tell that to Gen or Mike, because he doesn't want to give them hope and then crush it.

He smiles and looks left and right, up and down the path at the cabins he can see. The place holds a lot of memories, good and bad.

A lot of memories.

He shakes his head and pushes himself from the tree. He needs some sleep.

-:-

The camp is silent, everyone sleeping peacefully - he hopes. There'd been a day - two, three days ago when Nickolas had a nightmare, woke up screaming, waking up the whole camp. It took him almost an hour and a half to calm the kid down and no one really got any sleep after that. It hadn't been a good night. Or day. Everyone'd been on edge and the kid felt horrible for what happened, and no matter how many times everyone, including the rest of the kids, had reassured him that it was fine, he still couldn't let it go. It hadn't been Nickolas' fault; dreams can be a nasty thing, fears and memories mixing until everything explodes and that's what made Nickolas scream until his voice gave up and then he just wailed silent words into his chest until dawn came. The kids had been scared; they'll probably never forget the sound of the screams that woke them all up. But it hadn't been Nickolas' fault and the kids knew that, because they can sniff a fellow soldier down like sharks smell blood. The kids can be vicious, but there's still compassion in them, that he's sometimes in awe of. He shouldn't be, not really, but is. Because no matter how much and how many times life kicks these kids, they still know compassion, especially for someone who carries the same wounds as them.

-:-

The leaves rustle in the wind and he stops again. It's a sound that grounds him, a sound that speaks of the here and now. A sound that is real, when so many things aren't. Fake smiles, fake words, fake comfort, fake, fake, fake and lies. He fakes comfort sometimes, he lies, he does it yeah, and he doesn't ever feel sorry for it. Ever. Because these kids crave it. Need it. Even if they know it's fake, false, all lies, it still brings a smile on their faces. Even if for just a little while.

It's been four days. Four days of peace and quiet, no drama, no nothing. Four days of just doing what he's meant to do in the camp. Talk to the kids; help them understand why certain things are as they are, try to bring them out of their shells that they so gladly hide in and cling to, even in the safest of environments. Try to make them speak, try to make them shut up, just ... listen to them, when no one does and talk to them, when no one talks to them. Sure people talk but it's mostly at them, never to them and some kids get so frustrated at that, they develop all kind of behavior 'abnormalities' as Mike would call it.

_"You deal with abnormalities, Jared. There's nothing normal about that."_

He smirks remembering that little gem of Mike's. That man is all kinds of weird, but he's an excellent doctor and an amazing friend and he wouldn't want it any other way.

So for the last four days, he's just been there for them in any way the kids needed him.

Some cussed at him, Sarah even spat at him, which had been just gross and completely uncalled for and ruined the last clean t-shirt he had, but whatever, he's used to all kinda crap flying out of kids mouths. It's just how it is and he's used to it. It could've been worse, she could've spat at Mike and then she would probably be on cooking duties for the rest of the camp. Peeling potatoes is a horrible punishment, but doing it for the rest of camp. Every day? Just cruel.

-:-

But still, it's tough to do this, especially with kids, especially with these kids, that society or their parents just kind of forgot about, kicked them out the door and said, there, now go your merry way and stay the fuck out.

He sighs and looks up through the canopy of shadows. The nights, even with all their calmness and stillness, are the worst. He spends them by the lake and after that lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing for it to give him all the right answers to all the questions the kids ask him during the day.

Why do my parents hate me?

Why don't I have any friends?

Why do people never talk to me?

Why did my parents leave me?

Why am I so stupid?

Why can't I do anything right?

Why do others pick on me?

Why does it feel so good if I hurt myself?

Why can't I just die?

Why, why, why. But the ceiling never has any answers. Neither does the darkness.

-:-

Four days of nothing. It will have to end. Peace and quiet are always, aaalways just the calm before the storm.

He doesn't want a storm, literally or figuratively. He wants sunny days, warm nights and everything to be okay. But life doesn't work that way.

He shakes his head and wipes sweat from his forehead. He doesn't have the strength to shower, even if he smells of sweat and the food Ms. Lash made for dinner, but all he wants is to just crawl to his bed and fall asleep without anything on his mind. He's calm right now, heartbeat slow and steady, and his thoughts no longer in disarray. He could sleep and dream of good things, oh, like beer. Chocolate cake. Gummy bears. Good memories.

-:-

Sixteen more steps and he closes the door to the cabin. Its dark inside, but he knows the path to his bed and he collapses on it on his belly, heaving out a huge breath. There are shirts and pants and probably some socks on the bed, but he just doesn't have the strength to clean it all up. He'll do it in the morning. Maybe.

He sighs and puts his arms on the pillow, supporting his heavy head on his forearms. The moon is still huge and everything is silver light, bright like in the middle of the day. And it's still hot. The heat has been relentless the whole four days and he's just waiting for the rain to hit. He's spent enough summers here to know how things go and he can smell the rain coming. Every heat here ends with thunder and lightning, maybe even hail. But definitely rain. He's dreading that, because that means the kids will be cooped up in their cabins, with their cabin leaders and shit will go down. Always has, always will. But he's ready for it. He has tissues, he has water, he knows the kids more now than he did a week ago, he knows what makes them tick, what makes them break and what mends them, if only a fraction.

He's ready for the storm to come. He just hopes everyone else is too.

-:-

He turns on his left side and hugs the pillow, punching it a few times to make it somewhat more comfortable. He sighs again. He twists to his right and puts his hand on his forehead, pushing his sweaty hair back.

He should have stayed by the lake for a few more minutes. Maybe half an hour more, because he was sleepy there, but here? He's so far away from sleep. Everything is starting to ... cling to him. His t-shirt, his pants, his socks, the bed is a prison that takes away the freedom he felt when he'd been outside.

And...

... Jensen.

He can't not think of that kid. For these past four days the kid had been fine, doing what he had to do; eating, sleeping, talking to the other kids, even laughing. He seemed fine. Happy, maybe, in his own way. But happiness can be faked just like everything else and if anything, Jensen is the best faker out there.

But watching him interact with other kids, it makes him feel good, like he actually made some progress. Some crazy weird step forward in making Jensen see that not all people, not all kids are cruel.

He still has questions for the kid. Questions that he really doesn't know how to ask; doesn't know where to begin, because he doesn't want to spook the kid. But he needs to know. Do your parents hurt you every day? What is the worst thing that ever happened? Did you ever tell anyone? What did the doctors say? Where is your brother? Does he hurt you too? And then the awkward questions like, do your parents ever - touch - you? That question makes him sick to his stomach every time he has to ask it. And Jensen isn't the first nor the last person he will have to ask that question. But it never not makes him wanna vomit.

And then ... a question that he can't really ask without coming off as an insensitive asshole, but ... how is it, to live your days in such fear? In pain?

He wants to know that. Wants to know what still makes Jensen so ... okay. What makes him keep going?

He knows the kid had tried to commit suicide a lot of times, but there had always been - something that pulled him back from death. The last time, it was him. He will never forget Jensen with that plastic knife that he stole from the kitchen. He will never forget the cold shiver that ran down his spine when he saw Jensen leaning against the wall, beside his bed, sleeve up and the knife pressed to his delicate wrist. He will never be able to delete that fucked up image from his mind.

But still ... there has to be something inside the boy, making him fight. He's a strong spirit; smart with a wicked sense of humor and compassion.

His parents and all the people around him couldn't take that away from him no matter how much they, probably, tried.

He's strong. Maybe he will, one day and with a little push, be able to be alright. Safe. And even stronger. And trust in people.

He has so many questions; questions he probably will never get answers to.

-:-

And Marcus and Gary were still fighting about Batman and Superman last he saw them three days ago. So, that's going well. They're just friends, because they instinctively know that they shouldn't look for support in one another. Not like it would be with Jensen. Marcus would know Jensen would be the strong one and so he wouldn't have to be.

It's for the best. Jensen knows it too.

He turns on his back and groans. He played soccer with some kids in the afternoon and he's definitely feeling the burn in his legs and the bruises on his whole left side when the kids tackled him to the ground. He's sore like hell. He hadn't played soccer in years, since he was seventeen and while the mind never forgets the rules, the body sure forgets how it is to run after that ball for an hour. Or even more.

"Never playing soccer again..." he whispers to the ceiling and again, the ceiling doesn't say anything. No comforting lies from it.

"You suck..."

The ceiling doesn't reply.

Maybe some things just don't need answers. Maybe some things just are.

He closes his eyes and breathes out, sinking into the mattress, letting go. He can't do anything right now, but rest. And hope that tomorrow will be a good day again.

It hurts like getting hit on his funny bone ...

... when tomorrow turns out to be a bad day.

**The End (more soon)**


End file.
